Atlas
IT IS THE START of the new year. Just hours ago, I believed I’d be heading into my twenty-first year cured and without shame. I was wrong. So devastatingly and terribly wrong.
I lay under my duvet, dressed in one of the various silk sleep sets I always wear—waiting. Once I sleep, will it come?
There was never a rhyme or reason before, but now that I have had this false freedom, I am anxious to feel the cool, clammy touch again.
A small part of me is shamefully relieved. A tiny, hidden ball of anxiety is slowly unraveling at the realization that I won’t lose this form of release. But the rest of me, the most prominent parts, are crushed under the reality of my condition.
I am stuck. Forever condemned. Eternally filthy.
Seconds tick by, and I wait for sleep to take me.
The clock tower in the main foyer has long since rung 1 a.m.; it can be heard from every corner of Chastain Castle. The moon shines down from the skylight, and I fiddle with the shorts that sit softly over my thighs.
Sleep now, Atlas. You want release, don’t you?
I am mocking myself. I’m taking my own secrets and using them as weapons, harming myself one thought at a time. A vicious and bloody cycle that ends only in my own descent into madness.
Sleep now, Atlas. You disgusting, sweet little thing.
The west tower settles around me, quiet little creaks and groans that raise the hair on my arms.
I really should sleep now; my eyelids are growing heavier, and my breath is calming slowly. But my mind is reeling, and a part of me is still stuck on the conversation I had earlier, the one in which I told Oscar I was wrong.
It was a few hours before the countdown. I found him just before he left for the night; he was leaving the estate to spend the holiday with his family in town.
When he saw me, his time-worn face lit up in joy, a bright smile overtaking his features. That is, until he saw the sorrow on my face, and he quickly ushered me into the empty theatre room.
“Young Master Atlas,” he said. “What has happened?”
“I… I was wrong,” I confided softly, a few tears slipping free from my eyes.
I then told him what Julian had said. I kept a few things to myself; I didn’t give him the exact play-by-play, but I made sure he knew that it was Julian who cleaned me and how I managed to convince him it was my boyfriend and not a monster in the room with me.
At first, Oscar was livid. He demanded we involve my father and Atticus. But after some pleading and convincing on my part, where I demanded that I had it under control and that they would only act rashly, he finally relented.
“Fine, Young Master Atlas. But if he mentions this to you again, we will go straight to your father. And—” He then placed a hand on my shoulder, his dark eyes full of fear and concern. “If things become… difficult, please come to me. No matter the time or day, come get me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
Then, he left.
The way he spoke, it was as if Oscar was terrified that something bad was going to happen to me. That now that Julian has seen my curse, the demon will retaliate. But Atticus saw it once, and it did nothing—nothing at all.
I do not know everything about the way of the incubi. In fact, all I know is what the priest and the psychic told us. We are running on very limited information and two years’ worth of vivid yet blind nightmares.
I used to be so afraid of the incubus who has claimed me, and though it pains me to admit it, I am not necessarily afraid of it anymore.
Sure, I’m miserable to be stuck in this condition and crushed under the guilt of my own pleasure, but I don’t fear the incubus most days.
It’s never hurt anyone but me, and it’s never hurt me outside of rough sex.
Have… have I gotten Stockholm syndrome from a demon?
Needless to say, I find Oscar’s panic to be a little misplaced. I can’t see a reality in which the incubus punishes me for Julian's having involved himself for one night, no matter how much he saw.
And he saw… a lot. Things that disgusted him.
I can’t seem to stomach that rejection, that pain. So instead, as I lie on my bed waiting for the inevitable, my mind is creating its own fantasy. One in which Julian came up to my room that night just to find me, unable to fight his own desire, not due to my sister’s fear.
And as he did, he found me on my bed in a compromising position; a position that woke his own body, and he found himself overcome with want.
In this fantasy I’m spinning, as I stare down at my own soft skin covered by my white, silky pajamas, I imagine that he would have stood over me and fought his own urge to touch me. To experience what I feel like. Or, at the very least, would have used me for visual stimulation.
But of course, this is just a fantasy. Julian is far too kind for that type of toxicity. It only makes sense that instead, he would have bathed me and wrapped me in a soft towel, leaving me to sleep alone.
Just once in my life, I want to see Julian without his kindness.
If I told him the truth of my curse, my condition, could I see it? Would he be overcome with rage, unable to forgive me for lying? Would he want to protect me?
Julian is a clever man; will he ever sort the truth out on his own?
A part of me hopes he never does. That we can continue as we have been, doing this slow and torturous dance of ours where we avoid the thick tension between us whilst trading longing looks and half-spoken declarations.
Yet the other half hopes so desperately that he barges up here and demands the truth. That he rips my door from its hinges with his bare hands, pins me to this very mattress, and insists I tell him who or what was truly touching me.
But someone as beautiful and untainted as he is should not be in my bed. He should not be here, on the same mattress where I am frequently taken by a thing made of nightmares and sinful pleasure.
No, it is best that we stay suspended in our torturous dance, forever separated by an invisible line drawn between us. This way, I will not face heartbreak.
And he will not be tainted.
I once again debate hiding away in my bedroom. I know Julian must be back from his party by now, but I am unprepared to see him again.
How do you face someone who has shown you their disinterest? How am I meant to look him in the eyes when I know he finds me disgusting?
Will we be able to resume our painful dance in the end, or is that all wishful thinking?
I dress appropriately for a Chastain New Year breakfast—a blush pink silk button-up and wide-legged cotton pants—and head toward the dining room. I fear missing this breakfast will cause more harm than saving face would benefit me.
The walk to Hall E1 is quiet; I see no other life forms. But inside the dining room, everyone is seated in their usual seats. Aside from the chair next to Abigail, which is empty.
Julian is not here.
Jeremy sits in his chair that is placed next to mine, so I know they have been invited to eat with us, just as they were on Christmas Day. So where is he?
“Darling,” Mother calls, smiling softly at me. “Come sit.”
I follow her instructions, taking her small hand in my own as I take my place next to her. A hot cup of tea is already waiting for me, and Atticus is trying to get our father to speak with him about something business-related.
Abigail sighs, a gentle pout forming over her lips as she fiddles with her silverware.
“What is it, little one?” Father asks her, taking his escape from Atticus’s prying.
“Nothing,” she mumbles. Then, a moment later—because children can’t seem to hide a single thing—she continues. “It’s just that Julie missed our celebration, and now he’s not even coming to breakfast.”
She looks genuinely distressed. I don’t think I’ve truly noticed just how attached Abigail has become to her attendee.
“I can fetch him,” Jeremy offers.
Father waves him off. “Nonsense, let the boy rest. Abigail, I’m sure you will see him soon.”
I visibly relax. Not having him at breakfast will ease my anxiety—I won’t be on guard the whole time. I won’t feel so ashamed just looking at him.
When I raise my head, Atticus is staring at me curiously.
“So, does anyone have a goal for this new year?” Mother asks, looking around the table.
“I want to learn how to ride a bike!” Abigail shouts, her normal level of enthusiasm returning.
“I’ll help you,” Atticus tells her, placing his hand on top of her blonde hair.
“I think I’ll quit drinking Brandy,” my father adds, and my brother and I laugh quietly. “What?! I can do it!”
“Yes, you can,” Mother encourages.
“I—” But my words are taken from me as the dining room’s large oak doors open, and in walks Julian.
“Julie!” Jeremy screeches, standing so quickly from his seat that the wood of his chair scuffs the floor.
My father immediately stands as well, and my own eyes widen as I take in Julian’s appearance.
His eyes are sunken and ringed with dark circles, his shoulders slumping forward. I can see that he tried to make himself more presentable, wearing his typical uniform and styling his dark hair. But nothing is distracting from his tired expression and lethargic movements.
And most prominent, the harsh red scratches—one on each side of his face—ranging from the middle of his smooth cheeks and almost reaching the corners of his full top lip.
Embarrassed, sad eyes dart to the floor as he walks to his chair. He clears his throat. “Good morning, everyone.”
“What happened to you?” Jeremy demands.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Mother mutters, her palm covering her mouth.
“Nothing,” Julian rushes out, but his eyes… they flicker up to meet mine.
It happens too quickly, so insanely fast that I wonder if I’m the only one who noticed.
“Nothing?!” Jeremy repeats.
“Son,” Father starts, but he’s not talking to me or Atticus. “Let us help you. Did someone hurt you? Who did this?”
“I… I did it.”
Everyone stares in silence. Julian stares at his empty plate, his cheeks reddening by the second.
“You did it to yourself?” Atticus asks, unimpressed, though I can sense a hint of concern toward the attendee.
“Yes. I was shaving.” Julian says it plainly, as if the scratches even slightly resemble those of a razor blade.
They do not. Not at all.
“Julian, I’m not sure who you’re protecting, but—”
“Dad,” Julian interrupts, his eyes lifting to stare lifelessly at his father. “I said it was my fault. Please stop. I—actually, I really appreciate everyone’s concern and the wonderful meal, but I’m not feeling very hungry. Please excuse me.”
Julian leaves before breakfast is served. I watch him go, and I can see in the way he’s walking that he seems dissociated. Like he’s not here with us, not truly.
I desperately want to know who put those marks on his body.
With everything in me, I want to follow him.
But I know I’m the last person he wants to see, and it would only make our families suspicious.
So instead, I watch as Barfred enters the dining room with our breakfast, and everyone eats in silence.
Almost as if out of respect for Julian, our entire meal is eaten in this solemn way, and once we finish our food, I make a beeline for my bedroom. I need time to sit on my bed and dwell despairingly over who could have done such an awful thing to such a beautiful face.
Only I don’t make it past the main foyer. My mother calls out to me, placing a hand on my bicep.
“Darling,” she whispers softly, though no one else is currently near us. “Should you check on Julie? You’re the closest in age, and I fear he’s gotten himself in some kind of… trouble.”
I swallow thickly, unsure of how to weasel my way out of this. Julian would not appreciate my barging into his quarters, and I have no innocent way of explaining why this is to my mother.
“I’m under the impression Julian would rather have space, Momma,” I counter, patting her hand where it still rests against the silk fabric of my button-up.
“What he wants and what he needs may be two different things.” Her eyes drill into mine, beckoning me, and my violent ocean tides fight her calm, summer skies.
Eventually, I blink, and I sigh.
“Okay, I’ll—”
“Julian,” a hushed, whisper-shout of concern fills the foyer as footsteps become closer. “Please tell me what’s happening to you.”
“Dad, I need to go meet Susie and Landon. I don’t have time to hash things out right now. It was an accident.” Julian sounds defeated, uninterested in the man next to him or even the activity he’s on the way to participate in.
Once the two Walsh men enter the room and see us standing by the main staircase, they smile—forced, close-lipped smiles—and stop walking.
“Oh, hello, Lady Theodora, Young Master Atlas,” Jeremy says, nodding toward us.
“Julian,” Mother starts, her eyes never straying from poor Julian’s face. “Why don’t you just invite your friends here, hm?”
There is a long moment of silence before Julian’s eyes widen comically, his mouth falling open, then closing, then opening once more.
“W-what?” he stutters. Jeremy elbows him.
“Port Orford can be so boring,” Mother continues. “Bring them here; drink some tea, watch a movie, or use the music room. Whatever pleases you, truly.”
“Are… are you sure?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Of course.”
Julian watches her a moment longer before his gaze returns to his father, who shrugs.
“Okay,” Julian says uncertainly. “I’ll tell them to head here then…”
I expect him to turn on his heel and stomp away, or, rather, mope away, considering his current state. But he does not.
Instead, his eyes flicker to me, and an expression of pure, unfiltered sorrow and fear overcomes him—one that I cannot swallow, that I cannot comprehend or properly digest in the short amount of time he gives me before he is turning on his heel and walking away.
What was that for? Have I upset him that badly? Have I somehow hurt him with my shameful nature, or the way I acted toward him?
I find very suddenly that I know nothing—that every important thing I’ve ever known has become meaningless. And if I am too simple-minded to understand something as obvious as what his expressions are meant to portray, perhaps I have never known anything truly important at all.
I want to run after him.
This thing between us, or rather, this one-sided dance, has always been physical.
I have wanted him to devour me whole from the moment I saw him, and I have grown comfortable with that realization.
I’ve dreamt of it, felt the shame of my desire, pleasured myself to the thought of his hands on my skin.
But now, having seen the remnants of another on his flesh and the defeated sorrow in those big brown eyes, something else is beginning to fester uncomfortably close to my heart. Something that feels eerily similar to affection, protectiveness, and rage.
What I am meant to do with this sudden realization, this overwhelming possibility that I may like Julian, I’m unsure.
So, I will do nothing.
In the end, there is no other option I deserve.